


bares teeth extra sharp

by adnauseam



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Kissing, POV Second Person, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adnauseam/pseuds/adnauseam
Summary: But you don't say anything. You won't give her anything, only you already have.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	bares teeth extra sharp

**Author's Note:**

> Written before watching s3e1. Title from Grizzly Bear's _Alligator_.

You’re high on adrenaline in the slick honeyed dark and the woman who got you killed is two feet in front of you with her chin resting ever so gently on her hand, eyes gleaming, mouth not quite smirking. You swallow.

Sometimes, in a darkness just like this, you think that you’ll never get enough, that you haven’t enough, that you’ll just keeping going and going and going, that any minute now you’ll snap and you’ll be off again, chasing after her desperately, snapping at her heels. In the daylight it is easy to see that this is just fantasy. You are rebuilding your life. You are reshaping; you are becoming something better, cleaner. You tell yourself that you know your capabilities now, but also your limits. You aren’t like her, not really. She is vicious to the core, she knows nothing else, she is nothing but blood soaked skin grasping after more. And you are not, you tell yourself, but you can be ruthless. If you need to be.

But here and now, in this dark, with the glint of her eyes as sharp and thin as a blade and your chest in freefall, your hands shaking, a realisation closes in and you close your eyes to stave it off.

There is a knife in her hands. She does not toy with it, she holds it firm.

“Are you here to kill me?” you ask, voice as firm as you can make it.

She smiles. Not with her eyes. “What would be the fun in that?”

You are cool-headed. You are reasonable: authoritative but open. You are like water: capable of great force and drive, but malleable too. You tell yourself this.

But you can feel your heart beating in the slick red centre of yourself and it sends shockwaves down your legs. Can she tell?

“No, Eve,” and her voice is low. It isn’t taunting, like how she used to be. This is something else. This is somebody who could take you apart and put you back again into a misshapen sprawl of limbs and blood and something else. “I want you to come with me.”

Your chest tightens instinctively. You’ve been here before. You know what will happen when you say no: she might not kill you, not now, but she’ll keep asking and asking and asking and eventually, one day, enough will be enough and she’ll snap your neck or she’ll stab you in the stomach where you stabbed her or she’ll shoot you in the heart or she’ll poison you and stand over your convulsing body and watch with those eyes of hers. It’s inevitable. You’ll keep saying no and you know what will happen when you say no. When you say no—

But you don’t say anything. Her smile drops and she rises smoothly from the chair and looks down on you. “Don’t pretend,” she says. She steps closer and your body shakes around nothing and your lips tingle, looking up at her. “Don’t pretend to be scared.” Her voice is light, singsong, until it changes into something much harsher, much more unforgiving, and she says: “I know you aren’t.”

She slips two fingers under your chin and lifts until you’re looking right into her eyes, her black hungry pupils. You say nothing. You won’t give her leverage. You won’t give her anything, only you already have.

As she leans down you can smell blood on her breath and you can feel it under your nails, straight down to your toes. She takes achingly long to close the gap, moving steadily through the cold air without grace or elegance or pretence. She uncoils like a snake.

Her lips press into yours almost chastely, with increasing pressure. There’s no force to it, only a growing insistence; you don’t need to be forced. Tremors push through your body, fleeing from the point of contact, but there’s nowhere for them to hide, nowhere for them to run, and they pool finally in your stomach. Something is rising in your throat and you’d like to call it panic or fear or terror but you know that it isn’t.

You bite her lip and pull away, but she only moves with you, pressing you slowly against the cushions of the sofa, kneeling above you now. One hand goes to the side of your neck. It only rests there, without pressure. Her thumb strokes over your pulse point once, twice, three times. Your hand finds the side of her body, where muscle encircles bone and you dig your fingertips into the firmer flesh of her back, drag them down towards her hip. She shudders and you smile against her mouth.

The kissing is still slow, as if to prove a point, but the point is lost against the shifting of her body, the way she rocks into you, deliberate but never methodical. You think you may be losing, caught underneath her like this, but you know instinctively that she is not winning.

She won’t move away from you, even when your lungs are burning with tearing force, even when you are so desperate for oxygen that it overrules everything else. She only kisses deeper; you only kiss deeper. You cannot pull away because there is no next moment, no tomorrow, nothing after this.

But you know, you know the reason you did not come after her is because you wanted her to come for you.


End file.
